"There's always a first time," Julia said. "Do me a favor, darling, and don't let this occasion be the one that breaks the record."
Peregrine reached over and lightly stroked her cheek. "I won't," he promised. "Especially now that I've got you to come home to."
After leaving the Morris in one of the outlying car parks, husband and wife made their way arm-in-arm to the terminal building, Peregrine wearing his jacket and with the carryall
slung over his shoulder, Julia carrying his sketchbox. They found McLeod pacing up and down in the vicinity of the Aer Lingus service desk. A navy-blue duffel was pushed up close against the counter, with a twin to Peregrine's waxed jacket laid atop it.
" 'Lo, Noel. Where's Adam?" Peregrine asked.
McLeod shrugged and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. "On his way here, I presume. I've gone ahead and picked up all our tickets, just in case he's running late - "
"Isn't that him now, just getting out of that taxi?" Julia asked, pointing out through the plate-glass wall of the concourse.
An old-fashioned black taxi was just disgorging a fare at the curb, and the tall figure in a grey three-piece suit was unmistakable.
"It's about time," McLeod muttered, in undisguised relief.
Any further comment was drowned out by the public address system, coming on to deliver a boarding announcement.
"Is that our flight?"
"Aye."
While McLeod fidgeted, Peregrine took the opportunity to draw his wife aside for a proper goodbye kiss, then wistfully watched her departing figure until McLeod came over to tell him of the latest development in the Claire Crawford case. A moment later, Adam joined them, a lightweight leather carry-on case in one hand and a medical bag in the other. The three men traded greetings on the way to the airport security checkpoint. When McLeod produced his police identification, he and his companions, together with their bags, were whisked through the gate and onto the waiting plane.
Conversation in flight was sparse, of necessity. Peregrine had the window seat, and spent his time peering out at the grey cloud-cover, thinking about Claire Crawford and trying not to think about Michael Scanlan, all too aware that the flag for which Scanlan had paid with his life was still tucked into his sketchbox, right under his seat. Beside Peregrine, McLeod had lain back in his seat as soon as they were air- borne, eyes closed and arms folded across his chest with the air of a seasoned campaigner taking what rest he could before an expected engagement.
On the aisle, Adam gave every outward appearance of calm, but Peregrine noticed that one forefinger kept tracing spirals on the arm of his seat in a gesture that was almost ritual in its formal repetition. He wondered if the pattern might represent some kind of mnemonic device, reinforcing the teaching Adam had been given at the hands of Tseten and Julian. Adam was wearing his ring, as was McLeod, and Peregrine surreptitiously dug his from his pocket and slipped it on, just before they landed.
The plane touched down at Belfast City Airport just on an hour after takeoff. Deplaning with the rest of the passengers, Adam and his companions made their way through to the arrivals hall. Here they were hailed by a stoutly built man in a tweed jacket, with a flat cloth cap perched jauntily atop a thatch of snow-white hair. With him was a pert, grey-eyed woman in designer jeans and a rust-colored pullover under her navy duffel coat, whose abundant auburn hair was dramatically threaded with silver. Smiling, Adam strode forward to meet the pair, shifting his medical bag under one arm to free a hand.
"Hello, Aoife," he said, saluting the woman on both cheeks. "It's good to see you again, but we've got to stop meeting like this! And Magnus," he went on, turning to trade handshakes with the man. "How is life treating you, now that you're supposedly retired?"
The white-haired man grinned. "If you can believe it, I'm busier now than ever I was while I was still with the Force." His rich baritone carried the distinctive lilt of Ulster.
"He isn't joking," Aoife said in the same accent. "He's thinking of running for Parliament. I keep telling him he must be mad!"
"Someone's got to take a stand," Magnus returned.
"Aye, they do," Adam agreed, turning to make introductions. "You both remember Noel, of course, from the last time we had business in common, but you won't have met the latest addition to our ranks. This is Peregrine Lovat, a professional portrait artist with a rather interesting sideline in historical studies. Peregrine, I'd like you to meet Aoife Kinneally, my opposite number here in Northern Ireland, and Magnus Buchanan, her Second. Aoife's a stringer for Sky News. Until recently, Magnus was with the Royal Ulster Constabulary."
To Peregrine's discerning gaze, both members of the Irish Hunting Lodge displayed a characteristic aura of subtle, overlapping images - proof of their far-reaching personal pasts. Resisting his instinctive urge to pursue and capture those images, Peregrine concentrated instead on upholding his part in the exchange of civilities as they headed out of the terminal building. A travel-worn red Hi-Ace passenger van stood at the curb, casually watched over by a young RUC officer wearing body armor and a pistol, and carrying a compact submachine gun. At a nod from Magnus, he faded on along the road.
"My son's set of wheels," Aoife explained as she unlocked the back door so they could stow their luggage. "It was either this or the Carerra, on such short notice, and I wasn't sure how much gear you might bring."
"I'm grateful for transport in any form, Aoife," Adam said as he stashed his bags. "Before this night is over, I'm probably going to owe you half a score of favors."
Aoife laughed, a deep chuckle. "I'll remember that, the next time my editor hits me up with a demand for a personal interest story. In the meantime, we'd better be on our way. You did indicate that the time clock in this affair is running."
They closed up the back and piled into the van. Upon leaving the airport, Aoife headed west, skirting Belfast itself and picking up the M2 motorway north and westward toward Antrim. From the seat beside her, Adam spent the next half hour updating their Irish allies and outlining his battle plan.
"Our timetable is tight, then," the Irish chief said, at the end of Adam's briefing. "Fortunately, all our physical arrangements are in place; we just need to nail down the exact location. We'll stop at my house - it's on the way - and you can change clothes as well. I hope you brought warm things, because it's apt to be cold, out there in the West."
Very shortly, they were turning off the motorway to Tem-plepatrick, a pleasant village not far from the town of Antrim.
Aoife's home was at one end of a narrow lane - a substantial stone-built cottage with a detached garage flanking one garden wall. Leaving the van parked in the drive, she shepherded her guests and their bags through a wicket gate into a lushly tangled garden, where pink and white roses climbed untrammelled through thickets of flowering brambles. A mossy path meandered to a side door to the house. Entering, Adam and his companions found themselves in a tiled service porch, between a washer and dryer on one side and an array of coat-hooks and Wellie boots on the other.
"Just leave your coats anywhere you see a space," Aoife said over her shoulder, shrugging out of her own. "Adam, you and Noel can go on through to the living room to change clothes while I put the kettle on. The toilet's beyond and to the right, if you need one."
Peregrine was already dressed for the coming foray, in a turtleneck and navy guernsey over denim jeans and sturdy hiking boots, so he merely went on into the big country kitchen and subsided onto a chair with his sketchbox as Adam and McLeod disappeared in the indicated direction. Aoife had made tea and was pouring it into two large thermos flasks when the pair returned, Adam wearing a dark tweed jacket over a polo-necked sweater and cords. McLeod was less formally attired in a navy fatigue sweater and baggy green army surplus trousers bedecked with multiple pockets.